AN: This was inspired by Helen Fielding's Bridget Jones's Diary novels, as well as The Diary of a Nobody, by George and Weedon Grossmith, from which I have stolen the title. This fic teeters precariously on the edge of parody, I think, but I will leave it up to you to determine how OOC the characters may or may not be.

Rating is a T, but there is a bit of swearing.

All characters belong to J. K. Rowling.

Why should I not publish my diary? I have often seen reminiscences of people I have never even heard of, and I fail to see—because I do not happen to be a 'Somebody'—why my diary should not be interesting. My only regret is that I did not commence it when I was a youth.

Charles Pooter, The Diary of a Nobody (1892).

The Diary of a Nobody

Monday 27th December

Received this diary for Christmas off Minerva. Why on earth she thought I'd appreciate it, I simply do not know.

Still, idea of writing down one's thoughts does not seem entirely abhorrent to me. It might prove useful to catalogue the events of one's day. There can be no harm in it as no one else will be reading it. Not unless they value their health, anyway.

It is settled; I shall start now.

15:00p.m.

Today I went to Diagon Alley and bought some parchment and a set of new quills. When I got home, I decided to read—

Forget it; I've bored myself already.

Saturday 1st January

Right, well, it's a new year, after all—maybe I should give this another go. I suspect that at some point I will do something worth writing about.

For now, however…

Tended to my plants today. Gillyweed appears to be growing very nicely, but am beginning to be a little concerned as to the colour of my knotgrass. Shall have to keep close eye on it for next few days.

Am very bored—might even be looking forward to going back to work next week.

Wednesday 5th January

10:00a.m. My Office.

Hate being back in work. Hate my stupid, pokey box of an office. Most of all, hate my stupid demeaning job. Others may not consider it demeaning, but for me, there is a rather painful irony in it.

I am responsible for assessing and vetting recruits into the secret life of an Unspeakable. I am the front line in determining who has what it takes to hold one of the more prestigious and admired occupations within the corridors of power. An important responsibility, one might argue.

The irony, however, lies in the fact that I actually do not know what it is I am training candidates for. I have as much idea about what an Unspeakable does as anyone would.

Apparently, this non-existent level of inside knowledge is all I can be trusted with. My previous form with dubious allegiances and motives cannot be ignored, I am told.

I hesitated to point out that a fat lot of fucking good the Unspeakables were when Voldemort was wreaking havoc. Fat lot of fucking good they were when not only a band of Death Eaters, but Potter and his posse as well, waltzed as happily as you like into the Department and had free reign amongst the prophecies!

Seriously, what are these ridiculous people actually for? The fact that they do not disclose their work suggests to me that they do not bloody do any. Fancy themselves as some sort of Muggle Secret Service, do they? They've taken it entirely too seriously. Idiots.

So, yes, I am given each inductee, whereupon I am supposed to assess them to a predetermined brief. Following a period of training, and once I have decreed them satisfactory, they are euphemistically sent 'upstairs.'

What happens up there, again, I simply do not know.

It suits the Mnistry to keep me both close by and at arms length. It suits me, unfortunately, because I am not sure anyone else will have me. Can't blame them, really. They're not called Unforgiveables for nothing.

I make do. That's about the size of it. Have certain amount of room for manoeuvre (not literally; office really is a box) as I certainly know how to throw my weight around and get away with it. Bottom line is, I'm good at what I do and they know it. Have made fine art of spotting a Dunderhead at twenty paces.

Do wonder lately, though, as time goes on, whether I might try moving on from this dead end. Maybe this year I should give such an idea serious thought.

Ugh. Have just accidentally flicked open a few pages forward and have been reminded of impending, dreaded, annual event. Hate January.

Sunday 9th January

Noon. My Bed.

Have just managed to wake up following night of self-inflicted debauchery.

All in all, not a very successful night. Head feels like it may spontaneously combust, and that eighth shot of vodka clearly has not done its job, for I remember quite painfully the reason why I chose debauchery in the first place. Birthday. Forty-fifth birthday, to be precise.

Am now not only former Death Eater, former spy, former Potions Master, former Defence Against the Dark Arts Master, and current left-on-the-scrap-heap civil servant, of no little insignificance, but am forty-five year old formerDeath Eater, former spy, former Potions Master, former Defence Against the Dark Arts Master, and current left-on-the-scrap-heap civil servant, of no little insignificance.

The one boon, if you squint hard enough, is the advantage of my birthday falling at the beginning of the year. Once the chemically induced haze has lifted, and eventually it will, I can forget the inevitable stumbling block of depressing birthday and concentrate on my goals for the year ahead.

Yes, even I have goals. Since I decided so last night, anyway.

I know I wrote them down at some point, while I was still capable of holding a quill in my hand, and I left them somewhere… Ah, here they are, under the covers, stuck to my leg…

Personal aims for the following year (in no particular order):

1. Drink less.

2. Embark on new career route by finding a job I a) actually enjoy; b) am not over-qualified for; and c) where I am fully appreciated.

3. Find a woman.

Hmm… Find a woman? Where has this thought come from? Not something I have ever set my mind to… barring that one notorious aberration, of course…

Well, the way I see it, everyone else seems to have a partner so why shouldn't I?

Surely, cannot be entirely repulsive and repellent to the opposite sex? There must be someone, somewhere, who would have me? Must not consider oneself fatally un-loveable. Must think positively.

That can be number four: Will think positively.

I deserve a bit of happiness after all the shite I have waded through to get to this point.

Am Severus Tobias Snape, young-ish man of no small amount of repute. Have cheated death at the hands of Darkest wizard of them all, for fuck's sake! Have mastered some of the most difficult potions known to wizard-kind! Have Order of Merlin! Have lived life that would make your average idiot-in-the-street hair curl!

Own hair is decidedly and firmly straight, thank you very much.

Getting a woman for myself should, in theory, be a piece of piss with my credentials. I can—

12:30p.m.

Bugger.

Envelope has just shot out of Floo containing note from Minerva, reminding me of my promise to attend her anniversary party in aid of celebrating her eighty years' service to the moulding of young minds. Am not entirely sure how I came to agree to attend such a detestable thing, especially since my initial reply had been along the lines of telling her to go and boil her head.

Apparently, am now subject to being Imperio'd there if fail to comply with her wishes. That's fine by me. If she wishes to spend the rest of her life in Azkaban, then that is her prerogative. What a glorious end to a career that would be. I might even encourage it.

Now, as Hangover solution has kicked in and head is not pulsing when I stand, I have to go and water my pots.

Monday 10th January.

17:30p.m.

Have considered the likelihood of there being free drink at the party. Likelihood very likely, indeed. Should be cutting down, especially after the free-for-all last night, but…

Would only have a couple, anyway.

Can begin life of tee-totality on the morrow, methinks.

I shall go tonight, then. Don't really want Minerva to rot in Azkaban, after all.

Midnight. Home.

What a piss-poor night!

Bottom line—should never have gone.

Arrived slightly late at Hogwarts and found Minerva pacing around the Entrance Hall.

'There you are!' she scolded fiercely upon observing my arrival. She strode forward and wrenched my cloak off me, tutting when she saw I hadn't made any special effort with my attire. What the hell had she expected me to turn up in? Silks? Gold embroidery? Ruffles?

'Get up those stairs,' she ordered, giving me a shove.

'Will you desist?' I snarled angrily.

She ignored me. 'Everyone's here,' she explained as she propelled me towards the Great Hall. 'I wanted to—'

'Bugger off, Minerva; I'm not going in through the main doors.'

She shook her head wearily and we traversed around to the doors at the back of the hall. No one took much notice of our entrance, a fact for which I was grateful. I was more than prepared to seize the nearest drink and slope off to the nearest corner, but had only achieved the former part of that aim when Minerva started muttering, 'Now, who can we introduce you to?'

I know that I must have blanched. I might intend to find myself a fair lady but I certainly did not want any third-party involved. No bloody way.

'Minerva—'

'Look, there's Hermione! You remember Hermione Granger, don't you, Severus?'

I looked at her stupidly. How in the name of arse could I ever forget about Hermione holier-than-thou Granger? Have been known to have terrible flashbacks about her on occasion.

'In the midst of a divorce,' continued Minerva briskly. 'Bit of a touchy subject, I think. She's one of the most well-regarded barristers in the—'

'Frankly, I don't give a shit, Minerva.'

From the pinched look on Hermione Granger's face, she appeared to have been within earshot of our conversation. Minerva hurried forward, unperturbed. 'Hermione, you remember Professor Snape? Just Severus now, of course.'

"Just Severus"; dig the bloody knife in a bit deeper, Minerva!

Hermione Granger gave a little pained smile that did not reach her eyes. 'How could I forget?' she replied stiffly.

I looked into my glass, cursing Minerva and her absurdity.

'Well then, I must get back to my other guests,' Minerva announced with a pathetic attempt at being opaque, but in fact being more transparent than a piece of glass.

Once Minerva had flurried off in a whirl of tartan, Hermione Granger stood there looking as uncomfortable as I felt. Hadn't had the inestimable fortune of ever clapping eyes on her since the aftermath of the war had fizzled out. I noticed she gave me a surveying once-over with her eyes, and I was left with the impression that she did not like what she saw.

How dare she look me up and down like that! Snobby cow.

'So,' she said to me with disinterest. 'What is it you do now, then? Something in the Auror office, isn't it?'

I sloshed my whisky straight down my throat in one. 'No, it isn't. I work in the Department of Mysteries.'

She nodded with understanding. She knew as well as I that only certain people could admit to working within that specialised area, the inference being your responsibilities are not worth any cloak-and-dagger cover story.

She sipped her wine preciously, in marked contrast to my own swift near inhalation of my drink. Her eyes flitted to anywhere else but me and I could tell she wanted to get away. Couldn't really blame her as there seemed nothing else to say. I stood there with a mind as blank as a piece of slate and so, with little other option available, simply walked off. Honestly, what have I to say to a woman such as her?

Unfortunately, it wasn't to be my last encounter with her. Sometime later in the evening, I overheard her admonishing Minerva over the position the elder woman had placed her in.

'Please, Minerva, I don't need men paraded under my nose like that. Especially not men who may lay claim to being an unpleasant former teacher and old enough to be my father!'

Cheeky bint.

As if I wanted former bushy-haired, know-it-all students paraded under my nose! Especially those old enough to be my… daughter.

Oh, Christ.

In recounting this I have just realised once more that I am old.

I'm knocking on in years. I'm alone. I've got a crap job. No prospects. Nothing…

Where is the brandy bottle? I won't need a glass…

Tuesday 11th January

1:00p.m. Lunchtime. Ministry Canteen.

The best part of the working day, by a country mile.

Still feeling a bit delicate from the brandy last night. However, have feeling hearty meal with restore my equilibrium.

Wish I had money for own house-elf. Have not the patience or inclination for proper cooking at home. Therefore, lunch is usually the only square meal of my day.

Wish I could—

Aargh!

1:45p.m.

Was Potter.

Downside of lunchtime is increased risk of bumping into former students, enemies, 'friends', colleagues, anyone really. Strikes me, though, that have never seen Hermione Granger eating in here.

Silly me; what am I thinking? As if high-flying barrister would lunch in the staff canteen! They probably have a five-star restaurant located beneath the Wizengamot.

Potter often sits with me while we stuff ourselves with food. Think maybe Ginevra has not inherited Molly's culinary skill. Either that, or Potter really is the greediest swine known to man.

'Orrite, Snape?' he always says before proceeding with mastication.

It's not often I say anything in reply, but I did today. I said: 'Saw your friend at a party last night.'

'What are you doing at a party?'

Hmm. Did not like his disbelieving tone. Potter likes to think I spend my evenings staring at a photo of his mother. No gratification to be had there—have tried it.

'Saw Granger at Hogwarts. Merlin, what happened?'

'Eh?'

'She stood there all night like she had a stick up her arse; as if her very presence was a condescension.'

Potter's expression clouded briefly. 'She's having a hard time of it lately, what with the divorce…'

He didn't seem entirely convinced to me, confirming my suspicion that Hermione Granger had become a self-important old cow.

'Weasley get fed up of seeing her scowl, did he?'

'I'd rather not talk about it, Snape. The whole debacle has put me in a right bloody difficult situation, I can tell you.'

I snorted dryly. 'Loyalty, eh? It's a curse.'

'She's a good girl, is Hermione. I think you're being a bit unfair toward her.'

I rolled my eyes at his predictability, thinking, piss off back to the Aurory, Potter.

He left eventually, and now I must get back to my dingy dump of an office, too. At least I feel less of a car crash than I did this morning. Might even get some work done now.

Not that it'll make much difference.

Monday 17th January

10:00a.m. Office.

Have been given first new meat… trainee of the new year to assess.

Do not use Ministry approved guidance, of course. Have developed own criteria against which to judge worthiness. Arrogant of me, maybe, to act like I know better than the bureaucrats, but thing is, I probably do.

12:00p.m.

Boy of twenty-five stood before me looking suitably terrified. Can't blame him. Point is, they have even less information than I do. It's all so very shadowy and enigmatic, I'm not sure I want to go into it.

Mr Kyffin Armstrong, is his name. Has come from… Shall just check his file…

Oh, bloody Merlin. Immediate Dunderhead alert.

He's come from the Department for Magical Sports.

Unfortunately, have to actually prove dunderheadedness to my superior, Mr Archibald Wilson. He's one of the Ministry's first-class dimwits, by-the-by.

Suspect he may be a bit afraid of me, so encounters with him are always a pleasure.

Wednesday 19th January.

14:00p.m. Office.

Am convinced Mr Armstrong is a non-starter. Have just seen him write 'scissors' without a 'c'. My assessment has not even begun yet.

16:00p.m.

Now firmly convinced.

Just presented Armstrong with a basic logic puzzle I stole from a Muggle puzzle book, and he completely fell apart in front of my eyes. When he'd nearly succeeded in ripping all his hair out, I simply told him to leave.

Where the fuck do they find these numbskulls?

Where?

Thursday 20th January

Think I'm enjoying this writing lark. Have just re-read over some of my entries and found myself appreciating my writing style. Have made myself laugh on several occasions.

Saturday 19th January

Have not drunk alcohol for several days running. Deserve a few drinks to celebrate such a feat! What else are weekends for? Besides, don't actually want to be tee-total, now that I think about it. A moderate drinker is fine.

Everything in moderation—one of life's best maxims to adhere to.

Besides, need to think about where I'm to meet potential lady-friend. The pub is the only option open to me, I feel. It's the only place I ever go to with any regularity apart from the Ministry.

Am determined to pursue notion of relationship. Have paid many dues in lifetime. Not too much to ask for a bit of companionship, is it? If Lucius pissing Malfoy can sustain a happy marriage, then by Merlin, so can I. Because even my conscience is cleaner than his.

Bastard. Bloody smug blond bastard.

19:00p.m.

Realised have not thought about what I would like in a woman.

Hmm… Am not so desperate that have no standards… Should I make list?

Here we are:

1. Be within an acceptable age-range. Don't want to be accused of anything untoward.

2. No red hair.

3. No green eyes.

4. Have functioning brain.

5. Witch/Muggle?

Muggle might be to my advantage, as she would not have any preconceived notions about me. On the other hand… Maybe will leave that one up to fate…

6. Be unattached. Have no desire to be involved in showdowns involving jealous husbands or boyfriends.

Shall continue to think and edit list when and if I see fit.

Now must go and throw some Cleaning charms about the place. Almost asphyxiated from dust-cloud this morning when I took down a book off the bookshelf.

20:00p.m. Pub.

Have arrived at pub to realise have no idea how to attract interest of anyone, let alone a woman.

21:00p.m. Home.

Bottle of Ogden's is company enough, for now.

Tuesday 22nd January

17:00p.m.

Has been rather a pleasant day.

Day started with me storming along the Ministry corridors until arrival at Mr. Archibald Wilson's office. Upon arrival, I did not knock, I simply flung open the door and marched inside.

'Snape!' exclaimed the little man, his mutton chops all a-quiver. 'What do—'

Throwing down a scroll of parchments, I declared: 'How many Dunderheads have you brought before me now, Wilson?'

Wilson looked speculatively at the scroll. 'I—'

'Are you just picking any old bugger off the street? I assure you, I won't put up with it any longer.'

'I take it our latest recruit has fallen short?' Wilson proceeded to pick up the scroll and unroll it with a frown. 'We had it on good authority that he was a model student at Hogwarts.'

I scoffed loudly. 'Anyone may be a model student at Hogwarts. I bet none of his teachers bloody remembered him when enquiries were made! If your lot paid better observation to targets, instead of relying on examination results then I wouldn't have to waste time and resources on lazy, dim-witted, immature idiots, would I? And you, Wilson, wouldn't have your superiors from upstairs breathing down your neck!'

Wilson looked up sharply. 'How do you—'

'There's very little I don't know, Wilson; remember that.'

So saying, I turned on my heel and stalked out. I stormed all the way back to my domain and slammed my door shut with a satisfying shove. Then I stood still for several moments to absorb the gratification of the entire incident.

Despite my performance, I had no doubt my next recruit would be just as inadequate as the last.

Suspect day shall not be so pleasant tomorrow, however.

Ugh.

Wednesday 23rd January

18:00p.m. Yorkshire. East Riding.

Arrived in middle of squall. Could hear sea crashing against cliffs straight away. In this part of the country, could never be anything other than an omen. Walked up to the small house in front of me, and as soon I stepped over the threshold, there came a voice from on high.

'Sev'rus?' it called. 'That you?'

Raising my eyes to the ceiling, I grimaced. 'Yes,' I replied grimly. 'It's me.'

He rarely ventured downstairs—couldn't walk very well. I climbed up them with heavy footsteps. The bedroom was dim, night having long since fallen to leave light only from a bedside lamp. He was sat up in bed, obviously in one of his better, more lucid moods where he remembered easily who I was.

'Father,' I greeted plainly.

'Chuck us t' remote, eh, Sev'rus?'

'There's a good lad,' he rasped as I passed it to him from where it had fallen onto the floor.

The telly flared to life and he looked at me no more. It is many a year since I have ceased to be offended by anything he does. If anything, I find it easier not having to look at him, myself; even though I have been seeing him on a fairly regular basis for nigh on three years. Hitherto, had not seen him for nigh on twenty.

Was not the result of any particular incident, our estrangement. I'd just never liked my parents—either of them. They'd barely liked me. That is how it seemed, anyway. Still, blood is thicker than water, and all that claptrap. What else was I supposed to do when presented with the wreck he had become?

The District nurse sees to him most of the time. Most evenings I spend there involve aimless watching of the telly. Sometimes, I don't think he's even aware I am there.

Which is fine.

Other times, he doesn't even know who I am.

That is fine, too. I suppose part of me is sorry to say it, but I don't dwell on it. Really, it says everything about our relationship.

And it's all just… fine.

AN: Thanks for reading : )